Since July I've been living in the centre of Shanghai, in the former French Concession. In a tiny enclave of old pre-war two-story buildings.

My balcony the kitchen windows face north, I can see six steel-and-glass highrises that stick into the air above the roofs of other buildings in my compound, and I can count nineteen satellite dishes.

I can see cats sunbathing on the roofs of garages, every now and again I can see someone on a bicycle, riding down the alley between the buildings, sometimes a postman walks by.

The apartment in the building opposite mine is being refurbished, every hour, on the hour, one of the men working there walks out to the balcony for a smoke. If he sees me he smiles at me, waves his hand, and always announces my presence to his companions.

Every morning, when I go out to the balcony to see what the weather and temperature are like, I can observe an older woman who washes vegetables, under a sink installed on the side of the building, or washes clothes on a scrub board, or empties a chamberpot.

10.2007